Chivalry is Not Dead

I was off to work this morning, awaiting the bus at Sedgwick and Scott per usual. CTA is still a twat if ever there was one, but how else am I going to get to work, bike? Fuck that. As much as I’d love to start each day of my rewarding, soul-enriching job with an ass crack full of sweat, I can’t bring myself to do it. Besides, you’re playing with your life if you ride your bike to work in Chicago. Between the cabbies who collectively think that Khartoum rules apply and bus drivers who are too busy sexting their baby daddy to check their mirrors, it is not a matter of if but rather when you are being scraped off LaSalle Street. My neighbor does it most every day sans helmet, but he is tall, dark and handsome, so I think people give him a wide berth because of that. And come to think of it, why the fuck am I going to work anyway? Total coward move showing up there everyday, ON TIME no less. Pussy if ever there was one. A real man would have told them he was resting his balls on their chin long ago. But long ago is also the same era when I was actually a real man.

Moving on. While I awaited my chariot for the poor a man teetered by slowly on a bike, a well-known crackhead chasing him on foot. He finally stopped the bike and in very modern business-like fashion asked of her, “Bitch, what the fuck you on my dick fo?” The negotiations finally under way, she replies “Man, you know the fuck I need!” Shrewd as an Arab trader, was she. “Show me that paper first.” The buyer in the transaction pulled out what appeared to be some local currency that had been wadded up and stored inside of a cat’s asshole for a week while the apartment was being swept by looters. “What dis look like mutherfucker?” The proprietor of the bicycle pharmacy inspected the balls of negotiable bills with the care of a diamond dealer. You simply cannot teach this shit at Wharton. And here is what I would refer to as a teachable moment: The dealer pulls out his hand brandishing numerous pills and says, “Alright bitch, which one you want?” Chivalry is NOT dead! He was well within his rights to swat the unsightly bills from her hand and tell her to come back with her shit together. He could have very easily sold her the fucked up looking pill that his pit bull tried to eat until he kicked him in the balls causing a saliva-soaked pill to ricochet off his baby’s face. But no, as a sign of good faith for producing actual paper money and not a handful of urine-soaked pocket coins or some menthol cigarettes and some Jujubes, our salesman allowed this misshapen maiden to choose the pill she wanted and not the one he most wanted to rid himself of. Remember this the next time you are trying to decide whether or not to hold the door for a woman. The manners must have been contagious as the woman bade him “Thank you” before nearly crawling back to her abode to–we assume–swallow that pill along with a 22oz pounder of Steel Reserve and all her childhood dreams.

I’m unsure of what exactly he sold her. From a short distance and in broad daylight–as these co-conspirators could have given a flying fuck where they were or who was watching–it appeared to be pills of some sort. I assume oxycontin but really the sky’s the limit. It could have been crack I guess. However, what I know of crack production it seemed the items in his hand were of too clean a line to be rocks cut from home-cooked cake with a Stanley knife. So I’m going with oxycontin. But I’m sure it could have been something else, something really cool that I don’t even know about. That is what a sack of shit I’ve allowed myself to become. I don’t even know what drugs the kids are doing these days. Sure, I know about those really fun-sounding bath salts that make you shit your pants and suck blood from the neck of HIV-Positive vagrants, I’m not that out-of-touch. Marijuana is still there and never going away. Kids are probably still doing coke and I think I’ve read where heroin is so hot right now that even kids in boring fucking places like Naperville are overdosing on it. But maybe there is some new shit where if your girlfriend huffs it from a burning pan and blows it into your eyes your dick will glow and you can screw for hours without joy or any hope of climax? And how sad that I don’t know shit about it. Cycle of life I guess. Pretty fucking depressing when pondered. Although offered a couple of times I’ve never tried oxycontin. It seems like a pretty kick-ass time. Everyone I’ve ever seen on it is having a blast laying half-off a sofa in a puddle of their own drool with their eyes rolled back in their heads as an overly loud infomercial blares away in the background. But as awesome as that obviously is, I was too scared I would have such a great time that I wouldn’t wake up….ever. Yeah I know, but to be honest I’m just not a carpe diem kinda guy. Oh well, world needs straight alcoholics too.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special.
I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect.
After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside.
I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show.
Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day.
The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years.
So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.

One Response to Chivalry is Not Dead

classic. i just learned about bath salts a few weeks ago. when my brother detailed them, he clarified that “they're not the type you get from Victoria Secret, Andi.” Awesome. Validation that I am not only completely out of touch, it's as obvious to the world as nothing was to Hellen Keller.